


checkmate

by katyacore, superlateive



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: 80s movie level insults and jabs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Fluff, I think?, Intricate Rituals, NEERD FIIGHTS, alcohol ment, competitive board game au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 16:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17267327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katyacore/pseuds/katyacore, https://archiveofourown.org/users/superlateive/pseuds/superlateive
Summary: “This is supposed to be a scrabble tournament,” the blonde hisses condescendingly. Trixie finally turns to face the woman, and her mouth goes slack. She recognizes her, can’t believe that she didn’t just from her voice—although, there usually isn’t much talking during the scrabble matches Trixie has watched on YouTube.(a competitive scrabble/checkers au)





	checkmate

**Author's Note:**

> the title is funny cause they don't play chess! also TWO NEW FICS DAYS APART? WOW! ive actually had this first chapter done for awhile, but didn't go over and edit it. this premise and entire au has been created by my good judy trucksie on tumblr, so please pay her some compliments! i am just the hands that write it (with creative input too lmao). this fic is pretty much just for us, but if you like it, by all means, stick around! 
> 
> ive never written something like this, so i hope you like it as much as we do. have fun!

_ “FUCK!” TRIXIE HISSES. THE TOE  _ of her boot digs itself into the grout of the tile and Trixie is teetering dangerously, splaying out her hands instinctively in case of a fall, but she manages to regain her balance and stay upright. Trixie takes a deep breath, eyes closed, then opens them to look around before continuing to walk. 

 

The air of the empty town hall building is stale, smelling of cleaner and mothballs, and it’s absolutely perfect. It’s quiet enough for Trixie to hear herself think, feel her heart pumping with excitement and her brain ticking like they always do before a match. Trixie has her phone, a charger, a notepad, pen, and stopwatch in a bright pink canvas bag slung over her shoulder. She can feel every one of the contents hit her spine with every step, and it only serves to excite her more. 

 

Ever since her very first tournament when she was barely thirteen, staring at her black pieces and calculating when her opponent would move their cream colored ones into the perfect spot in order to be overtaken, she was very intense about her sport of choice; competitive checkers. 

 

Miraculously, she had won that first match. The referee had raised her hand in definitive victory, and she shook sweaty hands with her opponent, eyes gleaming with the knowledge she  _ won.  _ That first plastic trophy, spray painted gold, took the largest spot on her shelf. Trixie was always chasing that thrill of that first win. Most people argued that checkers was about the least thrilling thing in the entire world, but then again, they had never been good enough to win a state championship. 

 

Trixie plays the imaginary game in her head over and over, with a thousand different variations, in preparation for her match. She’s just about to perform a two-jump and capture the board when someone cries out shrilly upstairs. 

 

“What do you  _ mean  _ this is the wrong venue?!”

 

The board in her mind wipes away like a chalkboard as the sudden noise echoes around her. She quickly adjusts her bag and begins upstairs, swirling around the banister, suddenly anxious;  _ Was this the wrong place?  _ She pulls out her phone and fumbles for the picture advertising the tournament, and sure enough, the address is listed correctly, and Trixie reckons a typo wasn’t the culprit. She shyly makes her way upstairs. 

 

In the hall, which is lined with cabinets full of trophies from what seems like hundreds of other competitive sports, there is a short blonde woman standing on her tiptoes and waving her arms at a taller, more stout woman. The woman purses her lips and rubs her temples. 

 

“Michelle, they fucking  _ said—“ _

 

“I  _ know,”  _ Michelle hisses. She flips her braid—which is a sleek black in comparison to the blonde’s frizzy bun—and shakes her head. “I know they did. I tell you what, these promoters are absolute shit nowadays.”

 

“You think?!” The blonde cries, shouldering a leather satchel. Trixie hesitantly walks towards the two, sidling up next to the blonde and looking up at Michelle. Michelle has on a black and white striped shirt, clearly indicating that she’s the referee. 

 

“Ma’am?” Trixie asks. “This  _ is  _ where the checkers tournament is taking place, right?” The blonde scoffs loudly at Trixie, but Trixie doesn’t look away from Michelle. 

 

Michelle glances Trixie over and then tightens her lips. “Yes. Unfortunately.” 

 

“Oh. Good! So what’s the—” 

 

“Your little checkers game is delayed,” she continues. Trixie’s face visibly cracks, and the blonde snorts once again. 

 

“This is supposed to be a  _ scrabble  _ tournament,” the blonde hisses condescendingly. Trixie finally turns to face the woman, and her mouth goes slack. She recognizes her, can’t believe that she didn’t just from her voice—although, there usually isn’t much talking during the scrabble matches Trixie has watched on YouTube. 

 

The tiny blonde with black, thick-rimmed Gucci glasses that make her eyes look like she’s perpetually in a fishbowl is Katya Zamolodchikova—a national champion at scrabble, whose parents were also world champions before they retired. The Zamolodchikovas are a well-known name in any sect of competitive board games; you couldn’t escape hearing about them at least  _ once.  _ Katya’s title-winning play of “BUZZCUT,” beating her opponent by one point, is legendary within the sphere. She is, by and large, the best scrabble player in the U.S—probably the world. 

 

And Trixie now hates her guts. 

 

“No it’s not,” Trixie challenges, switching her bag to her other shoulder. “This was  _ clearly  _ advertised as a checkers tournament. So I don’t know why  _ you’re  _ here, delaying  _ my  _ match.” 

 

“I’m not delaying anything!” Katya says.  _ “Your  _ team must have fucked up and advertised scrabble instead. So that’s on you.”

 

_ “Me?!”  _

 

“Both of you, shut up!” Michelle barks. Both women shut up. Katya, incredibly, flips Trixie the sign language equivalent of the bird.  _ So much for sportsmanship.  _

 

Michelle points down the hallway to a door with a piece of paper labeled  _ CONFERENCE ROOM  _ taped to its surface. “Your colleagues are in there. Go join them so I can sort this out.” With a brisk kick of her high heel, Michelle shoves past them, leaving both girls alone in the hall. 

 

Katya crosses her arms and huffs. “Checkers. Are you twelve?”

 

Trixie screws up her face with indignation before marching down the hall. 

  
  


“Trixie!” Kim cries. Her bright pink hair bounces as she rushes to stand up and welcome Trixie, her fellow competitor and best friend since middle school. “Thank God! Can you believe this shit?! I—“

 

The door swings open once again, and there Katya stands, like some kind of divine influence who happens to be legally blind. A small gasp sweeps through the room, but Katya does not bask in it as she slams the door shut and moves to sit at the head of the large conference table in the middle of the room. 

 

“I told you!” another girl cries; her accent is like something out of  _ The Crocodile Hunter, _ Trixie thinks stupidly _.  _ She stands up from her chair and points accusingly at Kim. “I told you I wasn’t full of shit! She is with us!” 

 

Kim looks away from Trixie and at Katya, then back at Trixie again. “Holy shit,” she mouths. Trixie’s grimace sets itself in her face like stone. “You met Katya out there?!”

 

“Yeah,” Trixie says loudly, moving to sit at the other side of the table. “She was throwing a  _ total  _ bitch fit. Poor little rich kid isn’t used to not being first, I guess.” 

 

Katya’s face screws up in anger, and then into a delighted sneer. “I’m sorry,” she says calmly. “Who are you?” A few players gasp, and others snicker into their hands. 

 

“Trixie Mattel,” Trixie announces. “State champion for checkers, moving onto nationals.”

 

Katya looks her up and down with a hum, and Trixie shifts uncomfortably in her seat. 

 

“Mattel,” she says slowly. “Like the people who made Scrabble, no? Or the Barbie company? You with a name associated with Barbie is a pretty cruel joke.” Trixie runs a hand through her cropped brown hair, smoothing the curly flyaways. She can’t exactly say Katya is wrong. She  _ is  _ wearing pink, but it’s a turtleneck stuffed into ill-fitting jeans, which doesn’t help. 

 

“At least people can spell it,” Trixie breathes, and then turns away with another huff in order to face Kim, who blinks and suppresses a smile. 

 

“What a bitch,” Trixie groans. 

 

“Don’t you know all scrabble players are assholes?” Kim asks in a low voice, eyes shifting around the room. She scoots even closer to Trixie and strokes her forearm reassuringly. “They’re almost as bad as chess players. They don’t take us seriously, never will. Especially  _ her— _ she is totally full of herself.” 

 

“Right!” Trixie cries, elated. “And because she and her cronies showed up, our tourney is delayed. Un-fucking-believable.”

 

“And the one time you’re not late!” Kim jokes. Trixie jabs her in the rib with her elbow. 

 

The other scrabble players (scrabblers? scramblers? dipshits?) quickly gather around Katya, and suddenly Trixie feels transported right back to high school. She’s sitting with Kim, away from The Populars who, upon reflection, Trixie realizes really weren’t very popular at all. 

 

The case is the same here; in a room full of scrabble players, Katya is their Heather Chandler, but anyone not so thoroughly tethered to the world of competitive board games would just see a Geek Squad meeting. Trixie smiles at this mental image and runs a hand through her hair again. 

 

After a good half hour of keeping to themselves, the pot was bound to be stirred. They’re uncharacteristically restless—Kim is trying to bite off her acrylic nails with desperate fervor. The Australian girl who Trixie learned from Kim is named Courtney has begun pacing along the conference table. 

 

It’s on one of these pacing rounds that Courtney pauses in front of Trixie and sweetly asks, “Trying to get an upskirt, babe?”

 

Trixie’s face involuntarily goes red. She purses her lips and looks directly past Courtney’s head at a cobweb on the corner of the ceiling  _ (ew) _ . She bites her cheek and manages a curt, “Nobody wants to see that.” 

 

The room howls into grateful laughter, even though Trixie didn't even make a joke. It's an excuse to breathe and make noise, cause a bit of a ruckus, release the building tension. Trixie slumps back in her chair, waiting for the inevitable descent into anarchy. She feels like she’s been here for years. 

 

“If they’re going to take this long,” Katya says, yawning and grabbing her satchel from off the floor. “We may as well engage in some friendly play, hm?” She fumbles into her bag for a moment before bringing out a large, incredibly worn box of Scrabble. 

 

“You have  _ got  _ to be fucking kidding me,” Kim whispers. 

 

Katya proudly displays the box before opening it with slick, practiced fingers. She unfolds the board, its folds so worn that it’s about to separate into four pieces, and places it flat on the table. She pulls out the fated bag which contains her pieces, which are drawn over in sharpie in scraggly letters. The bag itself is expensive material, bearing the image of two cats that Trixie presumes with a silent groan are hers. 

 

“Trixie?” Katya calls. Trixie’s face snaps up too quickly, itching for another insult, but instead Katya is looking at her very demurely. “Care to play?”

 

Trixie scoffs. She set herself up for that one. “Har-dee-har. Very funny. I’ll play when you play a game of checkers with me.” 

 

Katya laughs dryly and begins drawing her letters. A plucky young girl sits across from her and does the same. “Oh, that’s too bad.” She swipes a finger underneath her full bottom lip, taking away the smudges from her purple lipstick with one clever move. “I’m sorry, I just don’t indulge in children’s games.”

 

“It’s  _ not  _ a kid’s game,” Trixie defends hotly, ears burning. “And just because you’ve got a big, totally useless vocabulary doesn’t mean you need to show off with big words.”

 

Katya pauses where she’s rearranging the letters on her rack and lifts her eyes back up at Trixie. She pouts her lips and furrows her eyebrows, which are mostly hidden under the thick rim of her glasses. “Poor baby, are you too slow to understand?” 

 

Before Trixie can stand up on the table and tear the board into pieces herself, Katya smoothly looks back towards her game and continues. “Where are you from, anyway?  _ Mee-neh-soh-tah? _ Your accent is just awful.”

 

“Wisconsin, actually,” Trixie corrects. She’s twisting the heavy metal ring around her middle finger almost violently, rubbing the skin raw. 

 

“Oh,” Katya says, with absolutely no interest as she plays the word “PATHETIC.” “I’ve played a—“

 

“A tournament there, yes, I  _ know,”  _ Trixie interrupts. She not-so-subtly hits her fist on the table on the last word, and Kim gently places a hand on hers to calm her. “Kim went, actually.”

 

“Did I win that one?” Katya asks nonchalantly. 

 

“Don’t pretend you don’t have every win and loss written on the back of your damn hand.”

 

“You act like I’m so pompous!” Katya cries. “I’m really not that stuck up. I think you’re projecting a bit…”

 

“Piss up a rope” Trixie spits, then realizes she’s doing absolutely nothing to help her case. She quickly pulls her well-used carmex out of her pocket and slathers it on her lips, which she has been gnawing steadily for hours. 

 

“Trixie, you really shouldn’t use carmex,” Kim says around one of her nails. “It dehydrates you in the long run. And it can’t be nice for Monica to kiss you…”

 

“Mine’s mint flavored, so checkmate,” Trixie retorts, shoving it back in her pocket. “Wait, shit! I forgot to tell Monica about the delay!” Trixie once again digs into her pocket, yanking out her phone and hurriedly opening her text messages. No missed ones, thank God. 

 

_ Hey, babe, the tournament’s delayed. Buncha scrabble weirdos showed up, I think the promoters fucked up the advertising. You okay? _

 

Surprisingly, Monica texts back almost right away. She doesn’t have read receipts on, most likely because she loves to ignore messages but also can’t stand notifications clogging her phone. It stresses Trixie out. 

  
  


Trixie worries her lip between her teeth again and sends a heart emoji, knowing Monica won’t respond to it, then shoves her phone back into her jeans pocket. 

 

“Who’s Monica?” Katya asks placidly. She’s played the word “ROOKY” now, and she refuses to look up from the board. 

 

“Do you always eavesdrop?”

 

“I’m so sorry, but you’re so loud I can’t help it…”

 

Trixie’s face is pink again. She doesn’t mention her girlfriend to many people, including her own parents. They aren’t homophobic—she had come out at nineteen after sleeping with a girl in college, but they knew she was gay by about age fourteen after she shaved her head one night using her father’s razor. But she feared it would somehow cause friction, or that they would ask to meet her, and that would surely cause issues. 

 

It’s not that she’s embarrassed, either. Trixie has no trouble letting everyone who sees her know she’s a lesbian by appearance alone. When it’s brought up in conversation, Trixie replies casually, just  _ daring  _ somebody to raise their eyebrows or give her a crude look. It rarely happens, and never gives her any satisfaction (except the time she decked a boy outside a tourney for calling her a faggot while yelling,  _ “I’m a dyke!”).  _ She hesitates now, though—not noticeably, but she does. 

 

_ (you’ll jinx it, that’s why.) _

 

“My girlfriend,” Trixie says finally. She sits a little straighter, like she always does, fills her chest and folds her hands. Katya is still not looking at her. 

 

“How long?”

 

_ (knock on wood)  _

 

“Two years.”

 

Trixie raps her knuckles on the table twice. 

 

“Is that a promise ring on your finger?” she asks. Trixie looks incredulously down at her hand. Katya hasn’t looked up from the board, how did she—

 

“Yeah, I—“ Trixie chokes on her words and swallows them. “I guess.”

 

Katya does look up then, a smirk still on her face. Her teeth are impossibly white, and Trixie reminds herself to make a jab at them possibly being veneers. “God, you’re butch.” 

 

“Nice  _ Jennifer’s Body _ reference, in the year two-zero-one-eight.” 

 

“That was barely a reference!” Katya cries, slamming down her pieces for a new word with satisfaction. “Just a fact. You are  _ so  _ butch. No wonder you play checkers.” 

 

“Is she hot?” Courtney asks. She’s got long, billowing hair, like a Hollywood starlet, with the sculpted and perfectly painted face to match. She’s way too pretty for competitive scrabble. “Your girlfriend.” 

 

“Yes, of course,” Trixie says, fiddling with her ring again. “She’s beautiful. God, why do I feel like I’m on fucking Punk’d?”

 

Courtney cackles and sits down on the table, giving her weary legs a rest from her incessant pacing and, Trixie assumes, so she doesn’t disturb the scrabble game. “If only. I’m bored out of my fucking mind.”

 

“What about you two?” Kim asks, and Trixie is grateful that Kim has diverted the subject somewhat.  _ Maybe they’ll just talk themselves to death.  _

 

“I killed my husband in an alcohol-driven rage after he didn’t write me in his will,” Katya says, so deadpan and quick that it makes Trixie wonder if she’s telling the truth for a moment. Courtney responds with a much simpler shake of her head. 

 

“Amazing,” Kim says sarcastically, and rubs her temples, very careful not to smudge her makeup. 

 

“Nobody wants to date a professional scrabble player, turns out,” Courtney says with a gentle sigh. Trixie feels bad for a moment, and then Courtney quickly adds, “Thank God I don’t play draughts! I’d really die alone then!”

 

“Draughts?” Kim whispers. 

 

“It’s what they call checkers in the rest of the world. Anyways, I have a girlfriend, was that not clear? Is your attention span that bad?” 

 

“Our schedules are just too crazy,” Katya continues, adding an explanation Trixie does not care about in the slightest. “And they can never play with us. One time, a date underestimated me, and when I totally crushed them they tried to tear the board in half. I don’t know why they always think they can beat me.” She shrugs in a  _ them’s the breaks  _ way, and Trixie sighs. 

 

“You just refuse to have fun,” Kim says. “That’s what you’re telling us.”

 

“Oh, come on,” Katya scoffs. “If you’re trying to tell me you’d let a date win at checkers just because you liked them, you’re out of your mind.”

 

Neither respond. Trixie has never let Monica win a single game, so she really can’t judge. But Monica doesn’t try to beat her. 

 

“I play with my nieces, and I let them win,” Trixie adds. 

 

“Kid’s game,” Katya affirms with a pitying sigh. She’s up by nearly one hundred points. Her opponent is neither surprised or concerned. 

 

The door swings open with an unexpected bang, and they all jump in their seats. Courtney yelps and scrambles off the table, one belt loop of her skinny jeans hooking on it and holding her back for a moment, leaving her squirming like a fish on a hook. Trixie doesn’t stifle her laughter. 

 

Michelle looks worn. Her once sleek braid is now loose and so close to falling out it’s making Trixie anxious, and her referee’s shirt is caked with sweat. She adjusts her bra absentmindedly and sweeps her eyes over the two groups, then licks her lips and sighs. 

 

“Okay, checkers is on,” she says wearily, and she doesn’t seem to have the energy to be upset by it. The checkers players whoop, Trixie and Kim high-five, and then Michelle continues, “So is the scrabble tournament. I told the stupid fucks it’d give them more press, but it still took damn near an hour to…” she sighs and leans against the doorway, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Come on, now.” 

 

“There’s only a few pieces in the bag left!” Katya whines, pursing her lips and looking with disappointment at her near-perfect board. Trixie grimaces.  _ She’s winning by a damn million and still wants to finish?  _

 

“People are waiting,” Michelle says sternly. “Katya, you are truly more trouble than you’re worth sometimes.” Trixie barks a loud laugh, but nobody else dares follow suit. Michelle doesn’t seem to notice. 

 

“I’m going to go fix myself up. I hear the paper is taking pictures.”

 

“They better be of us,” Katya says. She’s still seated while everyone else is slowly packing their things and moving. “We’re why they showed up.”

 

Trixie is gnawing her lip raw again. She’s not sure if she’s making it up, but it’s like Katya can annoy her in every goddamn way possible. Jabs about her sport, love life, appearance—and what has Trixie done to warrant it? She’s almost convinced that Katya was being honest about not being pompous. That Katya’s being stuck up just to piss Trixie off even more. And it’s working. 

 

She stands up reluctantly and checks her phone. Sure enough, Monica has not responded. Nobody else has texted her, either. Trixie decides to put it in her bag so she isn’t so tempted to check it. Michelle is gone when she looks back up, and most of the players have filed out in their respective groups. Even Kim is out the door. But Katya is  _ still  _ at the fucking table with her stupid game. Trixie pushes her chair in and calmly walks around towards the door. Katya giggles as she pads past her, and before she’s even finished laughing, Trixie reflexively kicks her leg backwards—hard. 

 

The entire conference table jolts violently, and Trixie can feel the force vibrate back through her bones. The sound of tiles clacking in utter chaos all over the table, even falling from the letter racks, and Katya’s horrified gasp, is music to her fucking ears. She doesn’t turn around, continues her way towards the door, but somebody she knows is Katya grabs her suddenly by her bag straps and yanks her back and around. 

 

“Is there an—“

 

“If you pull something like that at this tournament,” Katya hisses, and she looks genuinely  _ pissed.  _ Over a board game. “I will kick your  _ fucking ass.”  _

 

Trixie looks innocently back at Katya, then observes her tiny stature. “I’m from the backwoods and outweigh you by at  _ least  _ fifty pounds,” she says, calmer than she has been all day. “Good luck, four-eyes. And have a good game.” She pats Katya’s head, hardly realizing that she is, and turns around to catch up with Kim. 

 

“Hey!” Katya shouts. Trixie turns around again, unamused. 

 

Katya is grinning wickedly at her, her tongue poking out between her teeth, and gives her a stiff salute. “May the best player win.” 

 

—

 

The best player does. Michelle kept their opponents in a separate conference room, and Trixie’s heart had dropped when she realized she was facing Kennedy Davenport, a seasoned checkers player who had won many titles in her heyday. But she wasn’t in her prime now—or, Trixie hoped she wasn’t. It was little comfort. 

 

Katya had shaken her up. All of the drama and claustrophobia of being stuck with all those scrabble players had, but Katya had done so the most. The only way Trixie could calm down would be to replay the moment she kicked the table in her head. The clatter of plastic pieces on the table, Katya’s noticabley horrified gasp, and even her threat had all been immensely satisfying. It wasn’t reflective of how Trixie acted most of the time, and maybe that was the best part. 

 

She has seven pieces left and is once again thinking of Katya and how nerdy she looks, wearing a red woolen sweater over a collared shirt, sort of reminding her of a more bedraggled Mr. Rogers, when she moves her piece right into Kennedy’s path. Kennedy looks at her with a surprised sort of glee, too shocked to beli but Trixie realizes her mistake all too late—Kennedy moves to capture two of her pieces in one swift movement. Trixie watches helplessly while Kennedy hoards them away at her side, like a dragon protecting its jewels. 

 

Katya is throwing her off her game from all the way across the room. 

 

Trixie had tried looking at her a few times, hoping desperately that she was losing, but it was useless trying. Katya is so far away she’s simply a figure in blonde, and even if Trixie could read her face or see the board, she would have no clue who was winning. She’s never even played the game herself. 

 

In the end, though, Trixie wins. She corners the last of Kennedy’s pieces, and after a long deliberation on Kennedy’s part, she realizes there is nowhere to go. The referee hits the stopwatch, calls them off, declaring Trixie the victor. With a polite grin, Trixie reaches across the table to shake Kennedy’s hand. Kennedy congratulates her with a warm smile and firm shake. 

 

Trixie stands up from the chair, grateful for her achy legs being given the chance to stretch, and yawns. She glances over and finds the scrabble tournament still in full-throttle. Courtney is in in the far corner as Trixie saunters over, looking nervously at her board and running her painted nails over her bottom lip. Trixie doesn’t care to watch her game, though. Her boots carry her confidentially, without any input from their master, to Katya. 

 

Her board is decently filled. The words are spread out in order to leave the board open, allowing plays to be much easier, but Katya’s opponent is apparently having a difficult time regardless, sweat caking his forehead which he wipes away with a handkerchief. Trixie stops behind Katya and tilts her head, crouching close to the smaller woman and staring at her board. She hums, as if observing something she understood, and Katya visibly tenses. Her palms on the table squeak as she pulls them off and rubs them on her pants. She tugs a stray piece of hair behind her ear and clears her throat, gently as to not disturb her opponent, but Trixie feels the hostility oozing off of her. 

 

After an agonizing few moments, Trixie stands straight again. Coffee-housing, or chatting when it isn’t your turn, is strictly forbidden and ethically frowned upon in almost every competitive board game in existence. It can cause a forced forfeit and an expulsion from the tourney; Trixie knows this rule well. She is certain Katya does, too, from how anxious she‘s looking at her in the corner of her gaze. Her pale blue eyes flit down to Trixie’s boots, then snap right back up to her game. 

 

Trixie is going to make her crack. Her clock is at 15 minutes. 

 

Her opponent suddenly hits his timer, and the board turns back around. Katya sits up straight, brings both hands back to the table, and examines her rack. She mulls over the board, looking for opportunities, scanning for the perfect word for the most amount of points possible. Trixie pretends to be examining as well, once again humming as Katya fiddles with her letters. 

 

Katya finally picks one up, and Trixie let out a sigh. Katya turns to look at her then, a scowl etched on her face, and begins slamming her letters down with ferocity. 

 

_ S-C-R-E-W _

 

_ BZZT.  _ She hits the button with a flash of her pale hand, and the board rotates upside down once again, a blur of neon green tiles before settling. Katya pulls the last three letters out of her bag, while holding them above eye level, then places them neatly on her rack. Two Fs and a blank, making her combination of letters a depressing “F_F”. Trixie grins, the quietness of the room allowing her to hear her own jaw creak. 

 

Trixie glances over her shoulder, where Kim is sitting down for her game, her blue tulle dress fluffing out underneath her legs as she wiggles in the uncomfortable fold out chair. It makes Trixie laugh, and Katya blows out a loud breath. 

 

Katya is fidgeting now, shifting side to side in her seat, running a hand through her hair. She begins obsessively rearranging the letters on her rack, but even Trixie can see there is hardly a word to be found. She lets out a low chuckle, and Katya’s hand—which has been flexing and unflexing—flips over discreetly as she presses all fingers but the middle one to her palm. Trixie grins with satisfaction, and just as quickly Katya’s hand flattens again, the veins on her pale skin jutting out in a harsh blue thanks to the light above them. 

 

Her opponent takes a whopping seven minutes to play the word “ENDING.” There are no more pieces left. Katya stares at the board for only a moment before grinning wickedly and grabbing her pieces with shaking fingers. She plants the blank and two Fs in front of the word her opponent just played. 

 

_ O-F-F _

 

“ENDING” becomes “OFFENDING” and the blank (which is now an O) lands on a triple word score. Katya slams the buzzer once more and lets the board spin lazily back towards her opponent, but he’s sitting back in his seat with his face in his hands. He knocks his rack over and two Us spill onto the table. He motions Michelle over with one hand without removing the other from his face. 

 

Michelle comes trotting over, grinning eagerly and stopping to examine the board. She looks only for a moment before patting Katya on the shoulder and shaking her hand. 

 

“Incredible play,” she mutters, but a loud dispute over the validity of a word catches her attention again, and she goes jogging back over to the other side of the building with a roll of her eyes. 

 

Katya stands up quickly, shakes her opponent’s hand while complimenting his play, then turns on Trixie, who is still watching and rocking back on her heels. 

 

“That,” Katya says breathlessly, pulling a piece of hair that clung to her cheek with sweat behind her ear. “Is how you win a tournament, country mouse.” 

 

Trixie shrugs and kicks lazily at the floor. “I bet you wouldn’t have won without me there. You know, supporting you.”

 

“Maybe,” Katya agrees. She laughs haltingly, still clenching her fists and then releasing them. Trixie wonders just how power hungry she is. “After all, I was telling you to screw off. I thought you were gonna kick the damn table.”

 

“I sure thought about it,” Trixie says contemplatively. “I might next time. Maybe I’ll follow you to tournaments, just to make you nervous every time…” 

 

Katya stares blankly at Trixie before snorting. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You can be president of my fan club.”

 

Trixie opens her mouth to say something about Katya’s teeth when her phone starts to ring. Dolly Parton warbles “Jolene” loudly, reverberating around the room and her skull, and Trixie immediately drops her bag to the floor and sinks to her knees to dig through it for her phone and get it to shut the fuck—

 

“Jolene?” Katya asks, brow quirked, giggling and nudging Trixie’s bag with the toe of her Doc Marten. “Really?”

 

“It’s for my girlfriend,” Trixie hisses, fumbling around for a minute before her fingers feel the sleek cool metal of her phone. She quickly lifts it out of her bag and presses it to her ear. 

 

“H-Hello?”

 

“Trixie? You sound like you just ran a marathon, Jesus Christ.”

 

“I know,” Trixie says, her voice rising into a defeated whine towards the end. “I was looking for my phone.”

 

“Well, I’m waiting outside, hon,” Monica replies, tone accusatory. Trixie cringes away from it. “You said you’d be finished awhile ago.” 

 

“Right,” Trixie murmurs, ears growing hot. Why had she gone to see the end of Katya’s game instead of leaving? It’s all Katya’s fault, and here she is, standing over her and pressing her dirty, shit-stomping boot onto Trixie’s bag before kicking her gently in the knee. “I know, sorry. I’m—I’m leaving now, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Love you, bye,” Trixie whispers, and Monica makes a kissing noise into the receiver before hanging up with a  _ click.  _ Trixie looks up at Katya, who is smirking in response. It makes Trixie’s whole face burn up in embarrassment. She focuses on putting her phone back in her bag to try hiding it. 

 

“Looks like your little obsession made the wife angry, huh?” Katya sneers, once again pressing her boot into Trixie’s knee. Hard. Trixie shoves it off and gazes back up at Katya, teeth gritted, who simply adjusts her glasses. “You better make up for it.”

 

“Mind your damn business,” Trixie snarls, finally lugging herself to her feet and standing in her natural bow-legged stance, putting the bag on her shoulder. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

 

“Then why are you still talking to me?” 

 

“Oh, fuck you.” Trixie turns on her heel and starts for the door, weaving her way around tables and chairs. The sight of all those letters is maddening. 

 

“Bye, Trish!” Katya calls, standing on her tiptoes and waving crazily. 

 

_ “My name is—!”  _ Trixie spins around, shouting back at Katya, but she’s already lost in the sea of fellow players, fans, and newspaper photographers. 

 

“—Trixie…” she finishes quietly. The two players to her left look at her, puzzled; a few others had even turned in their chairs to gawk. 

 

“Just play your stupid game,” she spits, and starts back down the clean corridors and squeaky tiles, careful not to trip. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr @trixiesgum
> 
> follow lily on tumblr @trucksie (ill prob link these later but you can type)
> 
> thank you for reading!


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